Second Person Sing

By the time you realize it, you’re twelve months too late. The boys got good jobs and the good girls got dates so don’t wait, watching TV, for them to come back. You could wait the whole night, see the slow change from black into soft palette light – and you’d still be uptight about how much fun everyone else had tonite. You know what you should do? Ride the metro to the city. Everything’s so shitty anyway so let the buildings that you don’t have where you live offer up their silent gift: you are free in life – no wife, no land, no sticky little kids to keep you rooted to the suburbs where you used to go to school. No one’s chained your ankle to the bottom of the pool so you could float or keep on treading – you could finally start forgetting that she’s still alive and breathing and definitely not reading any word that’s written here – oh you could really be sincere when you say nothing’s ever worth it and if you’re still not really sure it’s true then say it every morning – watch your mouth move in the mirror. When you start to feel okay, you can move on – keep your room clean or organize your shitty poems or at least fuck around with the meter so the reader won’t get bored like you are always.